We stood huddled in a semblance of a circle,
leaning against our neighbor or standing alone together,
honoring all that had died in her passing.

Rain wept from a gray shrouded sky,
and though we thought we were protected 
beneath the thick canopy of maple and hemlock,
there was no solace to be had. 
Heaven’s grief still reached us 
with heavy drops touching shoulders, thighs and stone.

We were a mess.
Eyes blazed red.
White tissues were soaked with salty tears and mourning snot
or were twisted and wrung to keep fingers busy.
The world cried with us as we spoke to her, 
to each other, 
to ourselves.

Reluctantly, we buried a part of her with overturned trowels.
A small hole for a large spirit.

Finishing what we never wanted to start,
the circle tightened.
Hands and hearts and hips touched. 
Heads bowed.
No one alone.

Singing of her gifts, 
her spirit reminded us of our own wildness, courage, tenderness and presence, 
and planted a seed in each of our hearts
to nourish.

The circle unfurled and we lived on.